Sparring With Pens
by Ivanolix
Summary: When Elfwine refuses to practice his writing and Eomer comes to change his mind, what follows is a subtle battle of distractions. Fluff.


_Sometimes_, thought Eomer, _even a king needs a day of freedom. _There was a little room just out of the way of the Golden Hall, that had once been Eowyn's when she needed time alone, and that now he had taken over. It was very small, but that made it all the easier to keep warm, especially on this cool day in September. With a piece of wood in his hand and a sharpened knife in the other, he was amusing himself in a relaxing and entirely frivolous way. It was wonderful to be lazy!

But though his servants all knew that today he was to be left alone, and all petitioners knew that he was to be left alone, and in fact the entire nation knew he was to be left alone, apparently his wife did not. As he was feeling entirely unstressed, Eomer did not blame it on her Dol Amrothian heritage when she flung open the door to his private parlor, muttering and grumbling under her breath.

"Your, Son," she said in a distinct and deadly voice.

"Elfwine," prompted Eomer helpfully.

"Your Son is—_impossible_," she concluded.

"Then he _does_ take after his mother, as I was afraid he might not. Be very pleased, my Lothi, for had he taken after me, he would have been much worse."

Eomer's light and playful tone did not assuage his wife in the least, for she glared and tapped her toe. Eomer's face twisted into something a little more serious, and he said:

"What exactly am I to do about this impossibility in Elfwine?"

"Your son refuses to learn how to write, because he says that he is a true Eorling and the Eorlingas has no written language. He says that to learn the Gondorian script would be to say that we are a lesser people."

"Hmm," said Eomer thoughtfully. "As much as I would agree with him on being superior, _in general_, I will gladly leave the scripting to Gondor as we have no current need for it. But that does not mean he should not learn it."

"Good, I am glad we agree," said Lothiriel. "But _you_ must tell him so, for if I venture anywhere near him again, I might do something dreadful."

"Ah, I see," said Eomer, understanding well what this meant. "Where shall I find him?"

"In his room," she answered. "Eomer, I just do not know what to do with him," she added in a tone that was less frustrated and more desperate.

Eomer grinned at her, hiding the fact that he was rather annoyed at being interrupted. "Oh, I know what to do," he said in a rather dark tone, and then left.

Elfwine's door was shut, but Eomer opened it without a knock. His son was sitting with arms crossed, face set in a stubborn growl, and he did not even move as his father came in.

"I won't do it!" he said firmly. "You cannot make me!"

Eomer rather had doubts about this, but instead of proving it, he imitated his son and for a while they just glared at each other. Elfwine turned away first.

"I win," said Eomer in a dark tone, which caught the attention of his son.

"What?" asked Elfwine.

"You lost the staring contest," said Eomer.

"What staring contest?" said Elfwine with a half laugh.

"That was the purpose of glaring at me, was it not? I cannot see another thing that it might accomplish, unless, of course, you thought that you were an elf. Despite your name, alas, you are not."

Elfwine just stared, but this time in bewilderment.

"Oh, so I have surprised you now? What did you think I was going to do? Put you over my knee and thrash you for disobeying your mother? Growl and slap you upside the head for your insolence?"

"I don't know," answered Elfwine truthfully.

Eomer grumbled: "Why is everyone so surprised when I can string sentences together in a rational manner? You look just like your uncle, child."

Elfwine's expression went sour. "I don't want to. I don't want to look like a stinky Gondorian!"

"Stuffy, Elfwine, not stinky. They take an obscene amount of baths there; even their rats use shampoo, I believe."

"You are never serious!" protested Elfwine, though it was hard for him to maintain the gravity of the situation.

"Would you rather I berate and lecture you?" asked Eomer in a definitely more serious tone. "I certainly feel like it, but I am holding back for your sake."

"No," muttered Elfwine. "I just don't want to learn how to write."

"Ah, yes," said Eomer, sitting down next to his son. "What was it you said about it? That writing would be an indication that we were not as good as those from Mundburg? Smart answer, my lad, smart answer. However, like your remark about those inhabitants being 'stinky', it is not very diplomatic to say such things, no matter how true."

Elfwine's expression was delightfully questioning, and Eomer dove in with skill that would have impressed his brother-in-law who had taught him.

"Yes, _we_ know that we are better than the Gondorians, but to keep them as allies, we must never let _them_ know. Do you understand? We have to think about more than just ourselves. So what if it means we have to use their affected alphabet? It is not as if it will make us any less Eorlings."

As he let his words sink into his young son's brain, Eomer silently thanked Faramir for giving him a few lessons on persuasive speaking. He was quite proud of his son's patriotism, which mimicked his own, but would not deny that there were certain things that Gondor was useful for.

"So now, I will teach you how to write," said Eomer, and he turned around towards the parchment. Taking one of the long quills, he dipped it into the ink and drew a large 'a' with the slight quirk at the end that was his specialty.

"First of all, my son, you will learn this, and then we—" He paused and turned with raised eyebrows to see what his son was doing. Elfwine, who had been using his quill to stab at his father's arm distractedly, looked up with a grin.

"What?" he asked innocently.

Eomer frowned. "That is not how you hold a blade if you intend to stab someone," he said. "Have you not been taught these things? Here, look!"

And taking his own quill, he demonstrated. "See this grip? You must hold your sword as if it were a bird. Hold it too tight, and you choke it. Too loose, and it flies away from your grasp. And, you are holding it as if it were a two-handed blade, which is not something we Eorlings use, as it is unwieldy on horseback. Here!" And he adjusted Elfwine's grip until it was mostly perfect.

"There! Now try to stab me again?" Elfwine acquiesced. "See how that is much easier? And if I attack"—Eomer riposted with his own quill—"it is much easier for you to parry as well"—which Elfwine did.

"But I wouldn't attack like that if this was a real sword," said Elfwine. "I would attack like—this!"

And he launched a feint to Eomer's head, quickly switching to aim for the shoulder. Eomer gave a "Ha!" and parried easily, and soon the quills were swishing back and forth as they warded off each blow. Elfwine, frustrated, could not land a blow, but Eomer did not either, though that was by choice rather than skill. Seeing that his son was losing his composure and his temper, Eomer suddenly made a block, and then leapt forward to knock Elfwine off the bench. Landing with a light thump on the bearskin rug, he pinned his shocked son and pointed a quill at his throat:

"Surrender your weapon, for I have defeated you," he mock-growled.

Elfwine squirmed, but held on tightly to his own quill. "Since when did you cheat to win a battle?" he demanded.

"Cheat?" asked Eomer surprised and offended. "Nonsense! Every warrior knows that sometimes strategy is in order, and other times brute force is more appropriate. I did use my advantage in weight, but that is certainly not cheating."

Elfwine did not release his quill, but his expression was slightly more mischievous than resentful. "If you are such a great warrior, then you do not need me to surrender the weapon; you can find a way to get it out of my grasp."

Eomer's brow contracted as he thought on how to do that. Using his knee to keep his son's arm pinned, he attempted to break the grasp on the quill, but as soon as Elfwine saw him slightly off-balance, he squirmed sharply to the right, and over they rolled. But Eomer was quick for his size, and before Elfwine knew it, he was in another more complicated lock.

"I see you _have_ been learning warrior skills, however ill your grip on a sword is," pronounced Eomer cheerfully. "This calls for more drastic measures."

Elfwine's eyebrows rose. "What do you mean?"

Eomer leaned in very close to his son's face, eyes evilly lit behind bushy golden eyebrows. "I told you that a great warrior sometimes uses strategy, and other times brute force, but I did not tell all. There is another secret, that is seldom used, but always effective." And he whispered in Elfwine's ear: "Sometimes a great warrior must tickle his opponent."

Elfwine's eyes popped wide open, and he said: "You would not!"

"I would," said Eomer firmly. "If you do not surrender your weapon, I will."

Elfwine hesitated, deciding whether the ignominious crime of yielding would be more wounding to his young male pride than a tickling.

"Too long!" decided Eomer for him, and Elfwine found himself giggling and gasping and struggling to escape the tickling hands of death. But Eomer was ruthless, and though Elfwine managed to roll him over several times, in the end he was forced to submit, and he dropped the quill with a breathless: "I yield!"

Eomer, somewhat breathy with his own laughter, sat up and, retrieving Elfwine's weapon, shook his hand. "Well fought, my young son!"

"You always win," muttered Elfwine, but good-humoredly.

"What can you expect when you are ten?" asked Eomer. "When you are a little older, you will no doubt find it much easier. But I will say that I am impressed by your skills. If you train as hard with the sword as you do with your wrestling, you will go far, I am sure."

And standing up, they brushed off the fur and dust that had gotten on their tunics. Eomer smiled at his son and ruffled his blond curls. "Remember, not too loose, nor too tight, and you will be a master swordsman one day."

"Yes, father," said Elfwine grinning, and Eomer put an arm round his son's shoulders as they left the room.

Chuckling to himself, Eomer returned to his parlor and his whittling. Lothiriel was sitting in the chair, looking still worried and frazzled.

"What is it, Lothi of mine?" he asked, coming in and kissing the top of her hair.

"Elfwine worries me," she said. "He is so sulky and stubborn, and I can never handle him how I should. How did you fare?"

"Fairly well, I believe," answered Eomer. "I had to show him who was king, but he left smiling."

"And his writing? Did you convince him to do it?"

Eomer paused, his mind suddenly remembering that important fact. "The little manipulating—" he muttered under his breath. "He tricked me, Lothi! He distracted me with that phony grip of his, and I ended up teaching him swordplay instead of handwriting!"

"He is spending too much time with his cousins, I suppose," said Lothiriel, laughing as much at Eomer's reaction as at the fact that it was swordfighting that had distracted him. "For as much as he wants to be pure Eorling, he has the cleverness of his uncle."

"What goes around comes around, I suppose," said Eomer, his frown turning into a smile for the moment. "I used some of Faramir's manipulating to break him from his ill mood, and he used the same means to escape his lesson. Certainly the Dol Amroth blood in him."

Lothiriel smiled and tilted her head. "Thank you, my love."

"Oh yes, he will be a great king when he is older," said Eomer contemplatively. "And I do indeed thank you for helping with that. But though I am proud of him, he cannot grow up thinking he can best his father. He _will_ learn his lesson."

And the grim light in Eomer's eyes made Lothiriel rise as he started to leave the room, and say worriedly: "Eomer, what will you do?"

"I told him that a great warrior uses three things. Well, now I shall use my brute force to introduce him to the watering trough." Eomer grinned wickedly. "I shall like that."

Lothiriel laughed. "What a unique man you are, Eomer. I fail to see how anyone could not love you."

"Thank you, my dear. I believe I am of the same opinion," answered Eomer smoothly, dropping a kiss on his lady's cheek.

And it was not long before, as Lothiriel passed down the hallway, she saw a sopping but humble Elfwine carefully copying out his alphabet in his room. Eomer was indeed lord of the Eorlingas.

The End

_Author's Notes: This is somewhat related to my story "Bedtime Routine" where Eomer says he has tickled his children once or twice before. This story takes one year before that story._


End file.
